He Used To
by nowordswriter
Summary: He used to hold you tight. You used to hug him back. (2nd POV)


He used to tell you stories, long rambling stories about jeweled goblets, gold dubloons, pearl necklaces lost in the pages of time. Treasures tucked away, forgotten by history and remembered only in legend. He'd tell you how he found them, scouring foreign flea markets, knee deep in ruins, and smiling, always smiling.

He'd tell you in the morning, when the sun was getting too bright, when your skin started to burn. He'd cover your eyes and hug you tight. He was so cold. Not like your cold, the chill of a graveyard breeze - no, not like yours at all. His cold was frostbite black and the mad howl of a windswept tundra. It was nice, a balm from the heat. You used to hug him back.

He'd tell you at night, when the shadows shift and slide, when the moon hangs fat and round. He'd wrap you both in blankets. Neither of you could feel the evening chill, and he'd sweat under that little heat. But still he'd bundle up, and he'd insist you wrap up too. It's not healthy for little queens to be so exposed, he'd say. Little queen, he called you, never princess. Princess was Betty.

He'd tell you in the darkest hour, when he thinks you're asleep, when he thinks you can't hear him. He'd tell you all about his Betty. He'd tell you about picnics and movies and romantic dinner dates. He'd tell you how she laughed, how she smiled, how she loved. He'd always be whispering under his breath, eyes bright and feverish. You knew he was telling himself more than he was telling you. He was reminding himself, clinging to the little bits and pieces of himself still there. He'd mutter all night long, you remember. Some nights were worse than others. Some nights he'd forget where he was or that you were there. Those nights you stayed awake and huddled close. Simon, you'd say, over and over and over again. And he'd hug you, squeeze you tight. You used to hug him back.

Because one morning (a morning that came too soon), you'll wake up and he won't be there anymore. One morning, he'll wander off and you won't know where. One morning he'll go where you can't follow.

You followed him everywhere. You'd hike over demolished malls, climb up rubble mountains, and leap across snapped highways. He'd find things in the debris, odd little knick knacks to fill the long, empty hours. He was good at finding things, so good. He found a camera once. He took your picture. A keepsake, he said, to remember.

You didn't understand. You didn't understand a lot of things. Like sometimes, he'd throw fits and say such bad, not good things. And sometimes, when he thinks you're not looking, he'd look so sad, like he was going to cry. And then, there was that one time he pushed you and you fell and he got this awful, awful look on his face, like he was breaking up inside. He'd apologize, everytime something happened, he'd get so sorry and he'd hug you. You didn't understand why this was happening. You didn't understand what was happening. And all he'd say was sorry. Sorry, Marcy. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Always sorry. He'd hug you. His arms shook. You remember. You used to hug him back.

He told you once. Hambo was in your arms and you were in his. It was late and you were half asleep. You'd thought you were dreaming. He said it so quietly.

"I'm cursed, little queen, I'm cursed. This wretched crown has cursed me. I am to hurt the ones I love."

You almost forgot about it. You would have forgotten. Then one day, he put on the crown. And that was bad. You knew that was bad. It was bad, bad, very not good. You panicked. You knocked that stupid crown off his head, grabbed it, and flung it far, far away. It bounced and rolled right off that overpass cliff. You watched it fall and you were so proud.

He hit you then. Your cheek stung. It hurts, you'd thought. And before you could cry, he was gone. You wouldn't see him for months. You looked too. You looked everywhere for him. You walked for hours and hours and hours, scrabbling atop the wreckage and shifting through the rubble. You called out his name till your throat ached. Your feet grew pus-filled sores, and your legs cramped and seized. Still, you looked, day in and day out. You wondered if he died. You never found him.

He found you. He always finds you. That's what he does, even now with his new face and his new powers and his new mind. He finds lost and forgotten things. He found you.

But you never find him. Even then, when you saw him coming up the road. He was wearing the crown and his beard was eating his face, you remember. But you didn't care. He was here. Somehow, someway, he was here, with you. And everything was all right again.

You flung your arms around him and held on.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." You babbled. "I promise I'll never do that again. Please don't leave me all by myself."

You hugged him with everything you had.

"And you are?"

He used to hug you back.


End file.
